The conversation and the wrangling went on around him, but mentally Buffalo Caller had already stood up and left. He shut out the sound of others’ voices and kept counsel only with himself. Already he was visualizing the country he would cover, the circuitous western route by which he would make his way down to the Colorado River settlements with the least chance of discovery. He knew the farms where he had found horses and mules before and where he would likely find them again. But this time he would do more than simply take the white men’s animals. He would make a concerted effort to take as many of their scalps as possible. Those he did not kill, he would leave frightened for their lives. The survivors would be glad to gather their families and leave the land that had been Comanchería since the time of his grandfathers’ fathers.

He itched for the council to finish its deliberations, for he had preparations of his own to make. He would need, among other things, to repeat the vision quest ritual he had undertaken as a young man first seeking his guardian spirits. He would ask those spirits for a renewal of the power he had known in his youth, that he might bring down The People’s full wrath upon the Texans. Granted that power, he and others would regain the land that was the Comanches’ own by every right a warrior held sacred.

Unbidden, a loud war cry escaped him. He looked around quickly and saw that the rest of the council was as startled as he was. Everyone looked at him.

He was sure one of the warrior spirits had spoken through his voice. “The signs are good,” he said. “Many enemies will fall.”

Often in the past he had sought a vision, and usually one had come to him if he prepared himself properly to receive it. He entered the hide-covered sweat lodge naked and poured water on heated stones to force the impurities from his body, then cleansed himself in the river. His son Steals the Ponies rode beside him to the hill chosen for the vigil so he could take Buffalo Caller’s horse back to the encampment.

Formerly known as Jackrabbit, his son had earned a new name after leading several young men in stealing army horses right out of the military corrals one moonlit night last fall. They had not so much as awakened a sentry. Any father would have cause for pride in such a bold stealer of the soldiers’ mounts.

“Come for me in four days,” Buffalo Caller said. “If the vision appears earlier, I can walk back.”

He waited until his son had passed from sight, then unrolled the buffalo robe he had brought and spread it carefully on the ground. He built a small fire and lighted his pipe, blowing the smoke in each of the four principal directions, then down toward the earth and up toward the sky. He would not eat or drink until he saw a vision that would guide him. Often it came on the fourth day or night, for four was a number that held much power.